The Last Time
by LJLL
Summary: James Potter is the reason Gryffindor has both the Quidditch and House Cups for the first time in a decade, his name will be remembered for years to come among the Gryffindors of Hogwarts, but he is sad, because the one person he really wants to remember his name won't after next year. Alcohol makes his tongue loose as he makes one last attempt at happiness. And then he forgets.


The Last Time

He isn't sure how much he's had to drink. But he is sure that he doesn't care.

Today he played in the best Quidditch game of his life, and he won. He scored the goal that allowed them to win the game, stealing the match right from under the nose of the Ravenclaw Seeker, Gwenog Jones, in her last year. She really wanted to win the cup, something James can understand even in his inebriated state, but he really wanted to win the cup, too.

Gryffindor 220, Ravenclaw 210. That had been the final score.

The cheers at his goal had been absolutely _defeaning_. He was the hero of Gryffindor. The Quidditch progidy. The reason the Gryffindors had both the Quidditch _and _House Cups for the first time in a decade. His name would be remembered for years to come.

But James Potter is sad.

Last week, he'd received news from a healer in St. Mungo's that his father had contracted Dragon Pox. "A fairly harmless disease," the Healer had written, "but given Mr. Potter's advanced age…"

"Right," James remembers he'd said aloud to the empty room, "right, my dad's old."

The Healer had also added that he told Mrs. Potter to be careful, to not go near her husband until he was better. James knew his mother would do no such thing, and that it was likely, when he arrived home in nine days' time, that he would come home to two sick and elderly parents who had every possibility of not getting better. He's sad that his parents are eldery.

He is sad because he's of age and he's sitting around in school, forcing himself to pay attention to lectures of the properties of the bezoar and the proper way to transfigure eyelashes into toothpicks, playing Quidditch while people are dying. He's of age. He should be doing something. He's sad because he doesn't want to.

Most of all, the thing that hurts most about today, about tonight, James is sad about Lily.

He feels pathetic, sulking in the corner with his twentieth-something cup of butterbeer-and-firewhiskey, trying to force his eyes away from her, to stop watching her laugh with her friends, to stop watching the firelight dance across her skin. His eyes always find her again.

She hasn't moved for some time now. She's been sitting with her friends, Mary, Marlene, Hestia, and Emmeline something-or-other (James doesn't know their last names, he barely knows their firsts), laughing loudly every few seconds. She's drunk, too, definitely on her tenth-something cup of butterbeer-and-firewhiskey, if he's been counting correctly.

She nearly topples off the couch she's laughing so hard, but manages to catch herself just in time (though her drink does spill on the carpet).

"Bugger!" she shouts, drawing another round of giggles from her friends, looking dejectedly at the growing puddle on the carpet.

His feet move toward her without his permission. If they'd asked, he'd have said no. Because he can't trust himself right now, can't really control what he does around her, can't be expected to stop, to hold back if she gives him an opportunity.

"Scourga—Scourji—_Scourgify_!" He manages it eventually, staring hard at the spot on the rug. It disappears within a few more seconds, and then he looks up, meeting her gaze.

Her eyes are bright green and expressive, her face close to his, lips parted in a grin. The damn firelight is highlighting her, painting an attractive hue to her skin.

"Hi, James. Thanks—thank you for that. I couldn't remember the shpell. Spell!" she exclaims, laughing. "The _spell_."

"Sure," he says easily, making every effort to project the air of confidence he _should have_ tonight.

She smiles at him. "That was an amazing goal. The Keeper wasn't even washing. _Watching._" She corrects herself, still not moving her face away from his.

His eyes stray to her mouth, then back to her eyes. _Green and expressive, _he thinks, _and happy._ She's happy without him, so why can't he be happy without her?

The answer, he knows, is because she doesn't love him. There's no unrequited love on her part, no pile of bullshit to wade through every day, no insistent tug that draws her toward him every moment, desperate to see her, to be around her, even if all he'll ever feel for her is friendship. Instead, that's what he gets to deal with.

_She looks so happy._

"Lily, can I talk to you?"

She nods immediately, perhaps a bit too quickly—but his observational skills are off given the amount of alcohol he's consumed. "Help me up," she instructs as he stands, reaching for his hand.

Her fingers wrap around his before he has a chance to pull back, to panic, to set off the sirens in his head that go off whenever she gets too close.

He smiles and tugs her up. "Lazy," he teases as she gets to her feet.

She smiles at him, keeping his hand.

_She probably doesn't realize she's doing it, _James figures. Even so, he can't bring himself to let go. "This way,"

They walk out the portrait hole, a comfortable silence settling between them. He helps her through the portrait hole, she thanks him with a tipsy curtsy.

Laughing, she drops his hand and smooths her skirt back down. "What's up?"

He should have had time to rethink this by now, so why does he still want to say it? Why does he still feel like if he doesn't say this right now he'll regret it for the rest of his life? Why is the need pressing on him, pushing him, suffocating him, driving all the air from his lungs, forcing it out his mouth in the form of words that will ruin everything?

He can't fight it.

"Lily, I love you. I'm in love with you. I can't get you out of my head. I—You're so beautiful, everything about you, your courage, your heart, your kindness, your wit. You have the prettiest eyes I have ever seen, the widest, happiest smile of anyone, the most amazing hair. I can't stand not being around you. That's all I ever want to do, be around you. Listen to you laugh, make you smile, make you happy—I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy—Lily, I—" He breaks off, at a loss for words.

"I love you."

His heart is pounding, hammering against his ribcage. He can't stand still. His fingers are twitching, his breathing ragged, his fists clenching and unclenching even as his fingers twitch. But his eyes are locked on hers.

She smiles. "I love you too, James! And you do make me laugh!" She throws her arms around him, hugging him to her for a few, precious seconds that don't last nearly long enough (that last much too long). "I love lots of people. Like Mary! And Remus! And you love Remus too! And Sirius!"

She's still smiling, and her arms are still around him, but James moves backwards and breaks her hold. He feels tears stinging his eyes.

_No. _The word is horrible, defeaning in an entirely different way than the cheers this afternoon were. _No. No no no no no no no._

James Potter is sad.

The words, the ones he's asked her so many times before, words that have just fallen from his mouth without his thinking about it, dry up in his throat. They crackle and they break, spilling acid into his mouth. He doesn't speak.

He runs.

He wakes up in the Hospital Wing with a pounding headache. He sits up, regretting the decision immediately.

"Madam Pomfrey?" he asks in a crackling voice, holding the side of his head with his right hand. "Where am— Lily?"

She sits up, frowning, her hand similarly holding her own head. "James," she confirms, as if testing the effort of forming syllables on her tongue. "What happened?"

Madam Pomfrey comes out before James can answer (although thinking _is_ rather difficult right now). "You two came in late last night, quite unable to walk in straight lines. I know you two would never have been drinking, and certainly never would never have been so foolhardy as to walk into the quarters of a member of the Hogwarts staff when _inebriated_, but I do not know what happened."

James sees Lily wince, probably feeling guilty over drinking as a Prefect.

"Nonetheless, you two walked in, apparently quite exhausted, and collapsed into those two cots. I simply left you there. Perhaps you can tell me what happened?"

James and Lily look at each other with confused expressions.

"I just remember the quiet party celebrating the Quidditch match," says Lily, "but I've no idea how we ended up all the way over here, Madam Pomfrey."

Madam Pomfrey gazes at Lily with pinched lips before turning to James. "And you, Mr. Potter?"

"I… don't remember." He admits, wincing when he tries to think about it too hard and it hurts his brain. No trying to remember things about last night, then.

"Hm," responds Madam Pomfrey, muttering something like "lucky I don't have any proof" under her breath as she returns to her quarters.

"Do you remember, Lily?"

She shakes her head. "Just the party, like I said."

James lays back down, dropping his hand from his head. "We probably just drank too much." He laughs a little.

She laughs as well, making his heart flutter. "Probably," she agrees.


End file.
